


death is as good a beginning as anything

by Zayrastriel



Series: be my revolution, babe [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, Revolution, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 05:12:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5277941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire survives, Enjolras haunts him, and together they save France.</p>
            </blockquote>





	death is as good a beginning as anything

**Author's Note:**

> This series will be pretty vignettey, but all within the alternate history post-canon notion of Grantaire living out Enjolras' dream, and finding himself in the process.

The thing about a hail of bullets is that hail isn’t regular. Hail is a fickle thing, and so are bullets. Bibles stop bullets. Bad aim stops bullets (or at least, thwarts them.)

And sometimes, fate stops bullets.

There’s no way to make a quantifiable estimate as to the ratio of hail and bullet and fate that leaves  Enjolras dead.

There’s no way to make a quantifiable estimate as to the ratio of hail and bullet and fate that leaves Grantaire with a bleeding arm, a broken leg…and his life.

* * *

There are a number of things that Grantaire cannot comprehend, when he stands with Marius in the empty bullet-bloodstained wreck of a room that used to be the meeting place of _Les Amis de l’ABC_. He understands that Marius is alive, because it was almost inevitable that the universe or God, nonexistent as that damned deity might be, would swoop in to save Marius. Marius is the kind of man that both invites and prompts saving; still more with his blonde fiancee with sparkling innocent eyes and a soul as pure as any that Grantaire has ever encountered.

“They did not deserve this,” Marius says, voice husky and eyes brimming with tears. Grantaire does not strike him, because Marius would not be Marius if he did not say such foolish, cruel things.

“No,” he replies instead, voice carefully devoid of any emotion. “They did not.”

It’s hard to not ask Marius whether the soldiers did deserve it – whether every puddle of blood still drying in the streets was deserved. Marius did not wake in a pile of bodies. Marius…

Marius is Marius.

It takes all his effort to keep his feet still, and not to turn to flee down the stairs and through the broken doorframe. For the other man is looking around the room, through the dust and cobwebs that have already gathered in the time before the both of them were well enough to move. Perhaps there are phantoms dancing in the shadows, unseen to Grantaire but more vivid than reality to Marius.

Yes: Marius is the kind of man who attracts ghosts and fallen spirits, memory come alive.

So it is the worst kind of cruelty that the Fates could bestow upon Grantaire, that he is the one upon whom Enjolras decides to bestow his presence the next day.

* * *

It is cruel for Enjolras to interrupt Grantaire at midday, slumped just outside the bar. It is even crueller, though not entirely unsurprising, that Enjolras clasps his shoulder just as he is about to move it, to wrap quivering fingers around a bottle of wine.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, the fresh blood on his shoulder illuminated by a momentary flicker of sunlight through the dull clouds, promising rain in the near future.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and with no uncertain measure of relief. He hasn’t been sure he was alive, not since a bullet tore through his shoulder and leg. He hadn’t wanted to be, not at all.

Now he isn’t, and-

“You’re alive,” Enjolras cuts through his thoughts, voice as cold and angelic as ever.

It is perhaps the first foolish thing that Grantaire has ever heard Enjolras say. “You’re dead,” he points out. The observation feels awkward; partially because he cannot keep from staring at the bullet wound in Enjolras’ shoulder, and the hole in his head.

“Well observed.” Must the man be so condescending? His eyebrows are like those of a noblewoman, arched and shaped. Well suited towards haughtiness, even while covered in blood and gunpowder.

“I’m not alive, then,” Grantaire says, but he can’t help the slightest hint of uncertainty from entering his voice. Enjolras is a convincing man. He has convinced Grantaire towards faith, towards belief – if in Enjolras, rather than the ideals that Enjolras espoused.

Enjolras sighs. As though the fact that blood glistens on his shirt directly over his heart, is nothing strange. As though Grantaire is a foolish child, and this is a simple fact of mathematics or science he refuses to comprehend.

“You are alive, and I am dead.” _Tu vives, et je suis mort_. Each word is carefully articulated, English more than French in its pronunciation. (It’s tempting to risk Enjolras’ wrath and tell him that.) “And France lives on.”

 _La France._ Grantaire has not considered the word since their mockery of a revolution. _La France_. France died with Enjolras.

There’s a metaphor there, then. The spirit survives, though the body died. Stupid sentiment, useless in reality. But Grantaire has been stewing in reality and drowning out sentiment.

So he looks at Enjolras – really _looks_ , for the first time since a phantom came to mock Grantaire in this dingy place. At the bullet hole in his head, at his bloody split lip. The tricolour is similarly dirtied. But the man is radiant. He’s a fucking sunbeam in the September gloom, and Grantaire is nothing.

“France lives on,” Enjolras repeats, “as long as someone believes in her. I am dead, you are alive. France will live.”

Grantaire shakes his head. “I cannot,” he insists, and then bizarrely, “I am not worthy.” One of the serving girls, passing him by at just that moment, looks at him with disdain.

They all look upon him with disdain here, of course. Marius is to be married, to leave behind the shame of living. Grantaire lingers.

Not, it seems, according to Enjolras. For Grantaire’s god is suddenly a whole lot more steely-eyed. Suddenly, a memory comes to mind: of a younger, yet still violent Marius, and five minutes of his passionate speech that ended in simplicity:

 _France is great because she is France_ , that Enjolras says, as real as the bullet-ridden spectre that stands before Grantaire now to charge him with an impossible task.

“You are worthy if you are French. If you fight for the Republic, for her dreams, for her soul.” Less spoken than intoned, deep and sonorous. “Do you believe in France, Grantaire?”

There are many responses to this, Grantaire supposes; some more honest than others. It cannot be his fault that, when faced by the determined gaze of the only soul he has ever cared for, those responses vanish but for one.

“I believe in you.”

It does not seem sufficient. There is conviction in his voice that even Enjolras must hear; but it is not the dedication Enjolras must want. Grantaire doesn’t care about France, and Enjolras has always known that.

And yet – wonder of wonders, pearly white teeth gleam in a ghostly smile.

( _Oh_ , that smile.)

“Good.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've had a couple of comments about using "tu vives" - the present form is definitely "tu vis/vous vivez " but I'm being a fancy wanker and using it in the subjunctive to imply a lead-in.
> 
> Some of my students use it in French lit (I'm teaching in France right now) and I thought I'd be uber deep or something :P


End file.
